Do you know what I'm seeing?
by Chasingpaper14
Summary: How do you tell people you can see ghosts? For Neal he has never known anything different, but when he winds up on a work release deal with Agent Peter Burke his gift becomes more important to him than ever before. (Extended summary inside)
1. It's a Ghost Thing

**Full summary: How do you tell people you can see ghosts? For Neal he has never known anything different, but when he winds up on a work release deal with Agent Peter Burke his gift becomes more important to him than ever before. But he's spent his life being misunderstood, and his childhood in a mental institution because of it. Can he trust Peter to believe him or should he do what he's best at - being someone else?**

**I've wanted to do something White Collar AU for a while, and I've wanted to write a psychic fic for even longer. So this sorta happened. A great deal of my summer has been spent with a box set of "Ghost Whisperer" so the basic concept of Neal's ability stems from there, but the story is my own.**

**Title is from the song of the same name by Panic! At the Disco. **

**This story will be updated in chapter's, though I'm not sure how quickly or slowly I will put out new chapters, as despite having the basic story outlined there is no other work on this story so far but this chapter. Some people say unorganized, I prefer spontaneous.**

**This first chapter deals with Neal's past to bring the story up to date, but I promise Peter will appear next, and there will be much more dialog and Neal/Peter banter as well as a healthy dose of hurt/comfort in the future. Tags may be changed/updated, depends how this goes - like I said, spontaneous.**

Neal had been able to see ghosts all his life.

Not just feelings or sensations, images in his 'mind's eye', or any of that other psychic crap. But there, in front of him, as real as they were in life. A whole new spin on the term 'dead man walking'. It had taken a heck of a lot of getting used to - I mean how were you supposed to tell your parents that your 'imaginary friend' was actually late Uncle Albert, or sweet old Mrs Eden from next door who'd died six months ago from a heart attack.

Ghosts had been the focus point of his childhood for as long as he could remember. His earliest memories of them were that they would be standing around his bed while he slept - which surprisingly didn't frighten him like it should of, but instead helped him overcome his fear of the dark, and since then he'd trusted them entirely. But then again, he'd always been a strange child, fascinated by the stuff people had yet to understand, things that shouldn't exist, but did.

He would see them, the ghosts, on the way to school every morning, so often that they became 'the locals' to him, and it only seemed normal to greet each one upon passing, a nod here, subtle wave there - he was only a child but even he knew there were some things others weren't meant to see, and though it took a while, he realized eventually he was the only one who could see them. He knew every one of them by name, what they'd done in life, how they'd died...

He thought it would have been rude to ask a spirit how they'd died, but they didn't seem to mind. If anything, they were just as perplexed by him as he was, them.

Unfortunately this left him with very little friends - living ones that is - and he spent most of his school life being the strange, quiet kid that people tended to avoid and didn't look at twice. Nobody wanted to be associated with the kid who talks to himself.

Needless to say, he'd had a strange and somewhat lonesome childhood. It wasn't too bad - reading book after book on ghosts, psychic abilities and other mediums left him little time for friends, so he preferred his own company. He thrived on knowledge and understanding, so spent most of his time at the library, much to the concern of the librarian who kept trying to politely suggest books more appropriate for kids his age. He told her he wasn't a normal kid, which seemed to be a good enough answer, because she promptly gave him the space he needed.

He wanted to understand his ability, even if nobody would ever believe him when he told them he wasn't crazy. But nothing he read explained what he saw. No other mediums he had read about saw what he saw, as vividly as he did. He didn't just communicate with the dead, he had face to face conversations with them, which was something entirely different and no amount of research could provide an explanation. He'd started to think he was slowly going insane.

After all, communicating with the dead like most mediums claimed to do wasn't really the same as spending a Sunday afternoon discussing the ups and downs of baseball in the 1930's, with the spirit of a dead baseball champion - All while you were supposed to be watching the game with your parents.

He sketched and painted the people he spoke to, which allowed him to discover he had a keen eye for detail and could work wonders with a paintbrush. He painted all the time, but made sure to keep his sketchbooks hidden away, because he didn't know how to explain who these people were other than being able to see them while other's couldn't. He didn't want his parents to ask any more questions that what they already did.

When he reached high school, when he became too old for 'imaginary friends' and 'overactive imaginations' to be acceptable, his parents grew concerned. Well, visibly concerned, he was sure they'd known something was different all along, but only now thought he was old enough for the subject matter to be brought up. They'd tried to speak to him about it, and when that didn't work they'd made him see a therapist to talk about what he saw.

But he wasn't a very talkative person.

Once they thought they had tried everything, his parents began to just ignore his unusual behavior. Turn a blind eye when they saw him in the living room, talking to a blank space in front of the door, and pretend they couldn't hear him pacing in his room and muttering quietly to himself on a night. It became something they never spoke about.

Through all this, there was one person who'd understood him, who he could talk to about his abilities. A real, living person. Her name was Ellen, and she was psychic too, just not in the way he was. His father was a cop, and she was his partner on the force, so she'd become a familiar presence in his life, and someone he could talk to when he was doubting himself. She could understand him the way his parents couldn't. She made him feel normal when everyone else didn't, and though she didn't understand his gift anymore than he did, she'd helped him to embrace and understand it. When he was with Ellen, he felt human again. He felt like a normal kid.

It didn't last. When he finally thought his life was going to work out, shit hit the fan and his whole world was turned upside down.

* * *

He was fifteen when his mother placed him into an institution - 'Sunnydale Hospital'

A name couldn't get much cheesier than that. Neal wondered if they believed picking the most uplifting, optimistic name they could think of would disguise the ugliness hidden inside.

They called it a hospital, when in reality it was a crazy factory - a place where the people who didn't fit into 'normal' society were left to rot. He didn't blame his mother for the decision, because he'd given everyone more than enough reason to worry when he had a mental breakdown in the hospital reception. Not Sunnydale Hospital reception, but a real hospital. A hospital where people died.

The hospital where his father and Ellen had died.

_He'd awoke to the sound of hysterical crying. The kind that was loud, uncontrollable, ugly. He'd crept down the stairs to find his mother just as she'd put the phone down - she'd grabbed his arm and told him they needed to go to the hospital because daddy had been injured at work, but that everything was going to be alright, that he had to stay strong because it would be alright. Neal spent the whole car journey on their way to the hospital wondering why people only told you things would be okay when things were really, really bad and most likely wouldn't be okay at all. You never get told that when you have a cold, or chickenpox, or any of those other times things seemed to fall apart but could still be put together again. _

_Neal knew that whatever had happened, he wouldn't be able to put the pieces back together._

_They only lived ten minutes away from where his father could be dying, but it felt like they were driving forever, down a long narrow road with no end. No goal to reach, but too late to turn back._

_Didn't that just sum up his life in a nutshell._

_He made it three steps into the hospital reception area when he saw them. He didn't need to be told they were too late, to see the grim faces of the doctor, signaling for her mother to follow him, most likely to someplace quiet where people in the waiting area couldn't see a family torn apart by grief. _

_They were stood there, gazing towards him with lost, broken expressions. They were still covered in the blood they'd died in, from multiple gunshot wounds on a drugs bust gone wrong. His father wouldn't meet his eyes, now knowing what his son had been tormented by his entire life. Ellen took a step forward, perhaps about to console him, but he didn't get to hear what she was going to say because the air was suddenly too thick, choking him, the lights were too bright and the room too small, and there was someone screaming, blood curdling screams that reverberated through him, until he realized it was him making all the noise. _

_He was shouting, screaming at them, demanding answers to things he would never understand, things nobody could ever help him understand, he was all on his own. He dug his nails into his head, begging for them to get out, to leave him alone. There were other ghosts there, more than he'd ever seen in one place at once. Too many, all torn away from their families and loved ones. He couldn't breathe. All expecting him to pass on messages, but why should he give a shit about them when he'd just lost two people that were irreplaceable in his life, and God, he was so alone. So, so alone..._

_He must have caused quite a disturbance, for minutes later there were people surrounding him, holding him down while he kicked and fought and telling him to calm down. Telling him everything would be alright. He'd laughed, a hysterical, maniacal laugh because they too were lying - nothing was going to be okay now. Not now that he'd proved to everyone that he was insane, totally off his rocker. He felt a sharp prick in his arm and the concerned faces hovering around him began fading in his tunneling vision, then he was slipping, down, into a place where nobody could tell him everything would be fine because it was all lies, lies, lies-_

"Hey, mon frere?" Neal jerked back into reality at the sound of fingers clicking in front of him, trying to catch his attention.

He looked up into the face of the crazy little paranoiac that had become his only friend at Sunnydale. Looking down at the chess board between them, he knew by the concerned look on his friend's face that it was still his turn, and he'd been staring blankly at the pieces long enough to be noticed, caught like a deer in the headlights in his moment of weakness. Damn flashbacks.

The man was older than Neal, in his late twenties, with blond shaggy hair, and thick rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his nose. He was probably the most paranoid person Neal had ever met, the complete definition of crazy, but a true friend nonetheless. His records said his name was Dante Havisham, but he'd told Neal his real name was 'M'. Or at least, he'd told Neal that was all he could tell him, because it was a possibility that Neal was working for a secret government organization planning on taking over the world.

"Yeah, I know, my turn."

Neal had been sectioned after the hospital reception drama, for 24 hours to ensure he wasn't a risk to himself. There, he'd been given a psych evaluation which was ultimately what lead him to being placed in Sunnydale. The psych consultant that had come to see him had been friendly, but really Neal knew he was nothing more than a patient to be given a label, and another contribution towards the man's pay check. He was only pretending to care, it was clinical interest. _"Answer my questions truthfully..."_ he'd been told, _"Everything will be okay, trust me."_

But Neal hadn't trusted him, and everything wasn't okay. Another lie. He'd been diagnosed with schizophrenia - it made sense after all: the violent behavior during his breakdown, the 'hallucinations' and 'delusions', the 'voices in his head'. It made sense, it just wasn't true. He was given medication he had to pretend to take, and was recommended special care and therapy. But, because his mother had turned to drink shortly after his father's death, she was unable to look after him - hell, she was unable to look after herself - so he'd been placed in the institution because the people there would be able to help him get better. Of course, they couldn't, but Neal liked to let them think they could.

Sunnydale wasn't all that bad. It didn't have white padded rooms, and straitjackets like in the movies. The people here, they weren't as crazy as people assumed - they weren't dangerous or incurable. They weren't even sick to begin with, just troubled. They were all normal people, who just needed to little extra help, or someone to talk to. Sure, there were a few that needed a little more help than others - the people that woke up in the middle of the night, screaming and fighting unseen monsters, or those that paced and chanted, scribbling messages on the wall that only made sense in their head. But they came few and far between. The more common cases were that of depression, insomnia, bipolar, but they were still people, just like him.

"Sure you're okay? Is it to do with _them?" _

M, after Ellen, was the only other person he'd told about his gift. He'd confessed everything to him during his first week at Sunnydale over a bottle of wine that had somehow come into M's possession. He'd learned M was capable of a lot more than most gave him credit for. He had picked the lock to the fire escape door and they'd climbed up onto the roof to drink it. And he'd believed every word of Neal's right away, even the part where Neal had told him he was in here for the wrong reasons, that it was all a misunderstanding, which is what most of the people at Sunnydale tended to say. Sure, he'd had to spend weeks afterwards convincing the guy he wasn't an escaped alien from area 51, but M had believed in his gift instantly, and that was such a relief. Neal's talents had become a great interest of the paranoiac, and he asked all kinds of questions Neal couldn't answer - _Are there other's like you? Can you turn your powers off? _

_Do you like being able to see them?_

"No, not a ghost thing. I'm fine." He moved a piece and captured one of M's knights. "You're turn."

M played every chess move as though a single mistake would cause the world to fold in on itself. He would spend ages studying the pieces, retracing his steps and working out all possible angles before even considering moving a piece. It was a reason why their games took days to complete. He said chess was a expression of your soul - that two thirds of the game was understanding your inner self while the other third was moving the pieces. He took chess way too seriously.

"Remember, mon frere, chess is more important than knowledge."

"I'm pretty sure that wasn't what Einstein said," Neal raised a quizzical eyebrow, though his friend's endless selection of quotes - and misquotes - had become the norm for him, and he was getting better at guessing the authors.

"Maybe not what he _said_, but only those in tune with the eternal wanderers of the spiritual plane know that's what he _meant_."

"You're not psychic, M," Neal said for what felt like the millionth time. Every since he had told the man about his gift, M held some belief that if he spent enough time with Neal, he would catch the gift the same way one would catch a cold.

"That's what I want you to believe."

Neal could see he was already losing this discussion, so he pointedly nodded towards the board to remind his friend of their game.

It was M's own chess board - something else he'd smuggled in somehow, because he didn't - couldn't - use anything that's been in the hands of someone else. Even knives and forks (he had his own set) because it could be contaminated with poisons in a secret attempt to assassinate him, or be riddled with listening devices placed there by the government (who M had said were always watching) in an attempt to locate and terminate anyone who knew the moon landing was a fake.

That's pretty much why M was here.

While M was carefully and strategically plotting the move that could cause the end of human existence, Neal took the time to look around the large room that was the main socializing area, to see who was there, and who was _there, _but both the living and the dead had barely moved since the last time he'd looked past their table.

M looked up to see Neal's gaze elsewhere. "Is there anyone here?" he asked, looking around with him. He didn't need to clarify who he was talking about.

Neal's eyes snapped back and he grinned, he would be lying if he said he didn't like showing off his talents just a tiny bit. He nodded over to the large sofa in the center of the room. "See the guy sat on the sofa over there? The one with the book? There's a woman sat next to him, roughly the same age - maybe a wife? Possibly sister...she's smiling at him. She's been to visit him twice this week, I think she's earthbound because she doesn't want to pass on until she knows he can cope with the loss..."

Earthbound spirits - as he'd pieced together from his numerous trips back and forth from the library when he was younger - were spirits that hadn't crossed over the other side and remained here because they had - as cliché as its sounds - unfinished business. And, as he'd learned himself, they also tended to hang around places or loved ones that had meant something to them in life, that they were familiar with. It made sense, they had to be afraid and uncertain, especially if they'd died suddenly and didn't know how to find that better place, how to find the light, so to speak.

Some ghosts were convinced he could bring them back to life, but unfortunately his powers fell short there. But they did always seem to have a favor to ask, something they needed him to tell someone, or that they needed his help to work out how they'd died, or who had killed them because nobody else could help them, which is why Neal tried his best to avoid most of them. Fortunately for him, ghosts didn't always know he could see them, so as long as he pretended he couldn't, he could carry on his own life mostly undisturbed.

"Anyone else?"

"Over by the window, there's a young girl, teenager, staring outside. Oh wait...she's crying. I haven't seen her here before. Other than that, it's pretty quiet for once."

M blinked and reached for his glass of water. "I don't know how you do it."

Neal shook his head. "I don't either."

* * *

Mozzie. M's real name is Mozzie.

He'd told Neal the night they'd broke out of the institution. It was just coming up to Neal's third year. Mozzie had been there longer, but how long he wouldn't say. Throughout their stay at Sunnydale, Mozzie had taught Neal everything he knew, from simple pickpocketing to planning and executing a con. He'd taught Neal how to blend in, to be the person nobody ever thinks to blame, how to charm people and tell them what they wanted to hear. Mozzie had also helped Neal make the most of his natural abilities with paint, teaching him about the world's greatest artists, about how to perfect his own work, and even better - how to copy the work of other's. He'd taught Neal about class, and style. About the finer things in life.

Mozzie had given the kid everything he needed to make a life for himself and then unleashed him on the world. His own creation. He'd also gained a trusted friend and ally.

Neal had been able to rewrite himself, to become the person he wanted to be, and there was nothing in his way to stop him. The whole world had become his oyster. Against Mozzie's advice, Neal had kept his name. Changed his last name, enough to assume a completely new identity, but his first name was the only thing he had left to connect himself to his past. Though it had been grisly, it was still part of him and he couldn't forget that. But now, now he was Neal Caffrey, conman extraordinaire, ready to take on the world and show the world what he could do.

The first con they'd successfully pulled together, Neal had posted his cut of the profits to his mother's address in an unmarked envelope with a Canadian stamp. He'd hoped it would be enough for her to turn her life around, to stop the drink, but that was the last time he'd figuratively contacted her so whether she did, he would never find out. He and Mozzie both agreed, fresh start, no ties to the people they used to be.

Neal had been in his element, so much so that he almost forgot about his abilities.

But they couldn't keep living the high life without being grounded back into reality at some point. They were criminals, and Neal knew that would eventually have dire consequences. But Neal had almost managed a good two decades before his wild life caught up to him, and four years for bond forgery was a pretty sweet deal, considering there was nothing tying him to all his other crimes other than suspicion.

The agent that caught him, Peter Burke, couldn't have been a more worthy opponent. Neal could almost say he was proud to be beaten by him in their spectacular game of cat and mouse, despite it taking three years with many, many close encounters all across the globe. It was a good game well played, but he'd lost and was now facing the consequences of that loss.

A loss that meant four long, miserable years in a Supermax prison.


	2. New Beginnings

Prison.

Over the course of the next four years, Neal had learned that prison wasn't all that different from Sunnydale for several reasons: If you kept your head down you were left alone, everyone inside denied the reasons why they were put there, and Neal could use his gift to make friends where he needed them. Of course, Neal couldn't exactly conjure up the people he wanted to speak to - it wasn't exactly dial-a-ghost - but if he did happen to bump into a late friend of an inmate, he made sure to pass a messages on. He learned very quickly that the inmates in Supermax weren't as susceptible to his gift as the patients in Sunnydale, so when he started receiving funny looks and the occasional punch in the gut he kept quiet about it.

Most of the dead folk in prison were, unsurprisingly, previously inmates themselves. Which of course, meant that Neal always had company and someone to talk to when the lights went out for the night and he found he couldn't sleep.

Neal's favourite to talk to was a serial art thief known only as Chase - a pleasant coincidence that meant the two had much in common whenever he appeared for a chat. One particularly gloomy night when he was pining for Kate and longing for the feel of freedom at it's finest, Chase told him a story.

Chase was originally born in Africa, Kenya to be exact, sometime in the eighteenth century, at the peak of the Atlantic slave trade. He was taken as a young adult from his homeland to Europe - the fabled 'New World' - and forced into domestic slavery, working for many years in a large country manor along with several other African slaves. They weren't mistreated, but Chase was a free spirit imprisoned in a golden cage - like Neal he longed for a life with no boundaries, to live to his potential.

In his time as a slave, Chase had learned to pick the family's grand safe, and one night he fled the house and his life in chains with all the silver he could carry, assuming a new identity and going on to travel the world. He made a living by stealing artwork from those practising slave labour, and used the money to buy the freedom of other slaves. When he stole the silver on the night that changed his life forever, he replaced the contents of the safe with round white pebbles from the garden. So after that, whenever he stole a piece, he would leave behind a white pebble which then became his trademark signature.

Chase was eventually caught and hanged for his crimes, on the same grounds the super max was built upon.

Neal would spend hours with Chase discussing their greatest heists, and Chase took it upon himself to teach Neal his native tongue, so not only did he always have company, he could learn conversational Swahili at the same time. In the four years he spent in prison, he never managed to get Chase to cross over, but he knew if he did he probably wouldn't have made it through the system with his mind intact. Chase's story's were what kept him together when his cell felt too small or he awoke in blind panic after the monsters of his past clawed their way into the present.

It didn't take long for everyone to believe he was off his rocker, what, with sitting in his cell taking to himself at night. But quite frankly Neal was used to it, and found it made people stay far away from him, effectively keeping him out of harms way. Neal quickly adapted it as a sure-fire defence mechanism. In four years he never had one incident on record.

Unfortunately, romance got in the way of things, and Neal being a follows-his-heart romantic ended up slamming another four years onto his sentence.

Her name was Kate, he'd fallen head over heels for the her after meeting her in the middle of a con, deeply in love before he even knew what hit him. One of his biggest cons yet, and he would have walked away with nothing if it meant he could have her. Kate was Neal's creation, just like he was Mozzie's - he'd passed on his own knowledge to her after Adler had destroyed their lives, he'd picked her up when she had nothing and given her a new life, like Mozzie had given him.

He never told Kate about his past, or his gift. She didn't know about what he saw - there had never been a right moment to tell her, and he didn't want to lose what he had gambling it on the chance she would believe him and not walk out of his life. That didn't stop her from doing so anyway, and when she walked out on him in prison he had already broke out after her before he realized what he'd done, or just how much doing so would change his life.

* * *

He'd spent three long, brutal years chasing 'James Bonds' - the man who had infuriated yet captivated him in every way - yet Peter now found himself stood in a prison reception at 7:00 on a Sunday morning, signing papers for said man to be placed into his care with only ankle jewellery to keep him grounded. He couldn't say what had changed his mind when Caffrey had broached the subject of work-release after that stupid stunt he'd performed got him another four years. And for what? A girl? Just when he thought he understood him, the kid did something like that.

He had to admit, it was a damn impressive escape, one that could have made Neal Caffrey disappear from the map for good, yet Peter had found him in a cheap apartment less than a couple of miles away, clutching an empty bottle of wine like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He'd never seen that side of Neal, and he never wanted to see it again.

Peter fully expected him to run at the first opportunity, but somehow that didn't deter him from signing the contract. Waiting in the reception for the inmate felt strangely like starting school all over again - the same feeling of apprehension pooling in the pit of his stomach. Or like the day he and his wife adopted Satchmo, except this time he was bringing home much more than a puppy. That could pick locks, forge art, and speak eight languages.

"You here for Caffrey?" Peter hadn't realized he was so preoccupied with his thoughts until he looked up to see a prison guard stood in front of him. He must have missed the question, but the guard continued anyway. "Call me Bobby, my rounds go through his cell block. Word on the block says the FBI's taking him on, your Agent Burke right? The one that caught him the first time?"

"Twice actually." Peter didn't care if that was boasting. He'd worked damn hard to achieve it. He shook the hand the man offered.

"He's a good kid. Smart. Though I'd've thought he would be a bit of a handful, what with-" the man raised a hand, tapping his temple.

Peter frowned. "What do you mean?"

Bobby paused in thought, unsure how to address the topic. "Well, he's 'armless and all, but I guess he'd not exactly 'all there', if you know what I mean. Don't know if it's being in prison that's done it, but I guess if he's useful to 'ya..."

Peter's face must have portrayed his confusion, because the man cleared his throat, lowering his voice. "He talks to himself. A lot. I've heard him have entire conversations with himself, it keeps the other inmates up at night. And he gets these real bad nightmares too. Keeps his head down though, and I make sure to keep an eye on him, but in here he's 'sorta known for being a little..." Bobby trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. "Look, I better go, work starts in five. He should be out in a minute, final checks and all. Nice meetin' 'ya." The man began to head down the hall before Peter could ask anymore questions, so he filed away that knowledge to address later.

Sure enough, Caffrey turned the corner a few minutes later, dressed as as smartly as one could wearing the same suit he was put away in.

"Let me see it."

Neal lifted up his trouser leg to show Peter the anklet, before continuing his casual saunter over.

"It's not too tight is it?" Peter asked, because as much as he wanted to assert a not-to-be-messed-with first impression, he did still care about Neal's welfare, and not just because it was his job.

"Well, you know, I guess it's manageable but I think it would be even better if we just left it off." The trademark grin glued to his face seemed to somehow put Peter at ease. It usually meant trouble, but somehow it made Neal easier to deal with. And it cleared the room of any tension.

A happy Caffrey was much better than the melancholic wreck he'd found in that apartment.

Peter smiled back. "Nice try kiddo, but you wanted it, now you have to deal with it. Come on, my car's outside," he gestured with his head to the door, and the two made their way out and across the tarmac at the front of the prison.

Neal came to a dead halt halfway, eyes narrowed, making Peter stop and turn to face him. Bobby's words were still floating around his head, but he'd known Neal for years and he was the most sane guy he knew. "You okay?" he said hesitantly.

"Is that a new suit?"

Peter's face fell in relief, and he shot the man a look. He knew Neal enough to know the man knew full well it wasn't a new suit, but asking the question was indirectly insulting Peter's fashion choices.

"No it's not, and I like this suit. Now move."

Peter thought he heard Neal chuckle to himself, but it could have been the wind.

* * *

The car journey was silent, but it wasn't an awkward silence. Neal didn't want to start up conversation, so Peter gave him the time he needed to adjust while he listened to the radio. But of course, because it was Neal's life goal to get on Peter's nerves, he didn't stay quiet for long.

"I don't like this song."

"Tough, I do."

"This being my first day out of prison and all, I think I should get to choose the channel."

"Neal-"

"Can't we listen to the news then?"

"No Neal."

"News is good for you. You get to learn all about what's happening around you."

"I don't need to know, I have a newspaper waiting at home for that."

"What about Jazz?"

"What?"

"Do you like Jazz?"

In the end, Neal got to choose the channel. Peter promised himself he would start being tougher tomorrow.

* * *

About half an hour later, Peter had turned off the motorway into a fast food car park.

"What are we doing?" Neal turned from looking out the window to cock his head curiously.

"Eating. I need to set some ground rules and your probably more likely to listen to me after I've fed you so let's go."

Neal was more touched than he should have been by the simple gesture, but he said nothing as he got out of the car and headed after Peter.

"Okay, I'll order food, go find a table." Peter instructed once Neal had caught up. Neal chose a window seat in the corner, giving him a full view of the restaurant. Good for people watching, because he didn't want anything to catch him off guard. The last thing he needed was for Peter to ask questions. All Neal wanted to do was go home and have the night to adjust, put his smile on right and perfect the illusion of sanity. Of course, he was perfectly sane, but he needed more than himself to believe that if he wanted to remain out of prison.

Which reminded him, he didn't even have a home. In fact, Peter hadn't discussed accommodation at all since he left prison. He made a note to ask when Peter got back.

Looking around, he watched a man in a cleaners uniform dragging a mop across the floor, before he walked through the wall into the car park, promptly disappearing.

This was going to be much harder than he thought.

Neal's eyes flicked back to Peter's seat to see a man sat there, and because ghosts didn't tend to warn you when they simply popped into existence, Neal couldn't help but flinch, rather noticeably. No matter how many times you see it, you never get used to it, or prepare for it. The man looked only slightly younger than Neal, with dark brown hair slicked back with product, his eyes glazed with loathing and general hate for humanity. The kind of ghost Neal tended to avoid. Neal regained his composure and looked down at his hands.

"I need you to leave..." he whispered.

The man didn't leave though, and he wouldn't say anything to Neal. He just kept staring, with a look that sent shivers up Neal's spine and clawed at his stomach.

"Sorry that took so long, here," Peter sat down in the seat just as the ghost disappeared, placing down a tray of food. Neal looked around the room but the ghost was nowhere to be seen.

"Thanks," Neal reached for his burger, mentally brushing off the strange encounter.

"Everything good?" Peter seemed to sense his unease, following Neal's gaze out into the room.

"Yeah, fine. I've been meaning to ask, where exactly am I staying now that I'm working for you? You don't strike me as the type of guy to drop me off on the roadside to fend for myself," it wasn't his smoothest distraction technique but Peter didn't seem to notice.

Peter began to speak, but suddenly the man was there again, stood on Peter's left, and if you've ever tried to listen to two conversations at once, it's pretty impossible.

"Always be looking over your shoulder Caffrey..." The man's voice was low and venomous, in fact his whole persona resembled that of a snake. "It's all a game you know? They have you right where they want you, and just when you begin to trust them...bam!" Neal's hand jerked a little on the table. "He's lying to you. He doesn't care. You think your his first CI? He'll use you until your no longer an asset to the FBI then that's when he'll get rid of you. Sweep you under the rug. That's what he did to me. You think he cares but he doesn't. He killed me Caffrey! His own CI, and he'll kill you too. Ask him if you don't believe me. Ask him about what he did to Marcus. Don't let him fool you-"

"-greatest but I'm sure you can hack it."

Neal looked back to Peter, to see Peter studying him, and not doing a brilliant job at hiding his concern. He looked back to the left but the ghost had left just as quickly as it arrived.

"Neal?"

"I'm uhm, I'm just gonna...I'll be back in a sec," Neal stood up before Peter could continue, making his way over to the toilets and almost stumbling through the door. Looking in the mirror, he didn't realize how pale he'd become.

"So much for acting normal Neal, now he thinks you've got a screw loose." Neal muttered to himself, leaning down and splashing some cold water over his face. What the hell was that about? He'd had some crazy encounters before, but that pretty much topped the list. One rule he'd learned to live by though, is that not all ghosts tell the truth. Sometimes it's not always deliberately, depending on when and how they'd died, details often became hazy. FBI agents don't just go around killing for fun, and Peter was hardly psycho material.

Neal put it to the back of his mind, straightened up his tie, and went to go find his handler.

"Sorry about that, must've been something I ate. And nerves. I'd be lying if I said this was an easy adjustment."

"No problem..." Peter didn't hide his disbelief, but he didn't push the matter further. "Look, don't force yourself to eat it, the FBI's paid for it. I'll take you home, you can get some rest. You start work tomorrow, but If I don't think your up for it your staying in bed."

"I'm sure I'll be fine. Thanks Peter."

* * *

"So that's why you took me for lunch..." Neal took in the disfigured front of the sleazy hotel. The corner sign may have once been lit up, but was now hanging off at the hinges, and missing the letter 'T'. "To sweeten the blow when you installed me in this place. If this building comes down on me in my sleep, am I entitled to compensation?"

"Aww come on, don't be like that. I'm on a tight budget with you here - What it's cost to house you on the inside, that's what they're giving me to work with. If you can convince the Marshals you deserve a bigger budget-"

Peter silenced himself after taking one look at Neal's broadening smile. "On second thoughts, scrap that, that's exactly what you'd do."

"What about clothes? Your looking at my entire wardrobe here," Neal spread his arms, then let them fall heavily to his sides.

Peter handed him a twenty. "There's a thrift shop down the road. I'll stop by to pick you up tomorrow, unless your still sick I want you ready at six on the dot."

Neal forced a smile but it fell flat. "Great."

Peter turned away, but then he stopped himself. "Look, Neal..."

Neal raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He had a feeling this was where the questioning started. He wasn't wrong.

"Are you sure your alright? I mean, back there in the restaurant, something got to you. I don't know what it was but - look, I'm pretty bad at this sort of thing. But if this is going to work, I need you to be able to trust me, and tell me if there's anything wrong alright?"

Neal thought he'd take a wild chance, "Did someone say something to you this morning? You've been treading lightly around me all day. Nothing happened in prison, if that's what you want to know. I mean it."

"No, no it's not about that..." Peter was right, he really wasn't good at this. "Someone told me your behaviour in prison was...unique. I just want you to know that if there's something you need to talk about...The bureau would cover any costs for-"

"You think I'm crazy?"

"No! No. It's just-"

"Peter relax okay? It was just a ruse to keep everyone off my back. Put it this way, nobody thinks twice about picking on the looney. It worked better than just keeping my head down. I'm fine, honestly."

"So it was a con?"

"It fooled you," Neal's eyes twinkled to match his smile, and Peter's relief was visible.

"Yeah, good. Yeah. So see you tomorrow okay?"

"I'll be waiting. Oh and Peter," Neal called after the agent, who stopped and looked back.

"We've just had out first moment."

Peter rolled his eyes, getting into his car. Neal waited until he was out of sight before allowing the smile to slip. He'd handled that pretty well, but Neal couldn't afford to slip up again.

* * *

**In case anyone was wondering, Chase is purely a figment of my imagination. Any constructive feedback is appreciated as I haven't wrote a WC chapter by chapter before, so I have no idea how I'm doing ^^**

**More Mozzie in store next chapter as we learn something new about our favourite paranoiac.**

**Edit: Okay, so I've just realised during formatting I've lost all my dividers between sections, so I've put those back in for both chapters.**


	3. Old Friends and New

Somehow, even before he stepped foot into the vintage inspired thrift store around the corner, Neal knew he'd be able to make this twenty dollar bill stretch further than most would be able to. At the end of the day, partially reformed or not, he was still a conman and he'd gotten more with much less.

The suit he wore was at the lower end of his usual attire, but still more expensive than Peter's best suit so he put that as a plus. He straightened his tie and smoothed out his shirt, tidying his hair as best as he could with his fingers before striding confidently into the shop. Entrances are the most significant part of a con - if you made a strong entrance, people's imaginations would do the rest. Mozzie taught him that.

He strode casually past the clerk and headed towards the rack of tasteful suits, all out of his price range - but the vantage point gave him an opportunity to survey the shop and see if there were any opportunities he could utilize.

As if fate had drawn one out for his benefit, an elegantly dressed middle aged women came into the store, depositing bundles of _very_ nice suits onto the front desk. "I've come to donate these."

Neal's smile tugged at the corners, but before he had a chance to go over, a deep voice resonated behind him. "I see you've noticed my wife's suit collection. You have excellent tastes if I might say."

Neal pivoted around to reply, hesitating once he realized it was 'wife' in past tense. He instantly felt bad for attempting to manipulate a widow - he was a con artist but he still had morals, which put him at the other end of the spectrum away from the serial killers, rapists and God knows what else he'd had to share a cell block with for four years.

The man was tall, African American, and dressed to equally high standards in a lavish suit and the kind of vintage fedora Neal would die for.

"I've been waiting years for the women to take them out of storage, there's no use holding on to them now I can't wear them, but she's not really one for letting go."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Neal almost offered a hand to shake but then corrected himself. "I'm Neal. Neal Caffrey. If you don't mind me asking, how did you know I could see you?"

"Name's Byron. And well, I didn't, but I'm the type of guy that believes anything is possible. I figured if I introduced myself to enough people, eventually one of them would turn around," he chuckled, and it was low and hearty, the kind that warmed you through like a roaring fire on a winter's night. "And if you don't mind me saying, it takes a con to know a con."

Neal canted his head only slightly with pride. He had a legacy to live up to after all. "They really are amazing," he turned his head back towards the lady at the counter, eyes falling back on the selection of pricey clothing. "But right now, in my current situation they're a little out of my price range," he held up the crumpled bill in his hand, his smile pulling tight.

"You seem like a man who appreciates a fine suit as much as I do - did. I don't think they could go to a better home, I was always hoping they would fall into good hands. Go introduce yourself to my wife, June, I'm sure she'd agree with me."

"Thank you."

Neal turned away to head over to the lady - June - who was laying out the suits at the front while the clerk examined them.

"Those are fantastic," Neal didn't have to fake his awe as he took a closer look at them over the women's shoulder.

"They belonged to my late husband-"

"Byron." The name slipped out before Neal could stop himself, but the women's eyes lit up with fondness and surprise.

"Oh, Did you know him?"

Neal paused. "Well, not exactly. I'm...psychic, a little, and sometimes these things just sorta roll out of my head before I can stop them. I'm terribly sorry," Psychic? Where did that come from. Well, he could work with that, he just hoped she didn't think he was one of those cheap cold readers who preyed on the vulnerable.

However she only looked interested, "Byron was never fond of that sort of thing, but I used to get readings from a man he played poker with on weekends."

Neal smiled in lighthearted understanding, picking up a suit jacket that had caught his eye, eyes widening at the familiar label. "This is a Devore," he looked to her for permission before trying on the blazer.

"Yes, he won it from Sy himself."

"Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?" his eyes flickered briefly over to where Byron stood, eyes shining from under his tilted fedora.

"He certainly did, and so did I."

"You know..." Neal knew he was pulling at ties now, but she'd proved she was hardly skeptic of the paranormal. "I could try give you a reading, I don't really practice so I can't promise it would be anything good. It's more mediumship than anything, sometimes I can-" he paused, looking for a way to approach this. He couldn't tell her he could see her husband stood behind her. "-communicate with the deceased. I could see if I can reach your late husband?"

Turns out, he did manage to pass a message on from June's late husband. And also, June had a _whole_ closet of those suits, and a spare guest room. Their agreement was mutually beneficial.

* * *

Neal never thought he'd get so much pleasure out of watching Peter squirm the next day when he came to collect him for work. He didn't have to say anything to watch Peter's expression slowly darken, and of course, he didn't mean to look _that_ smug.

There wasn't a slow moment in Neal's first day as a consultant, even he'd only just been introduced to the case. It was nice being able to watch how things worked from the lawful side for a change - he could never observe the logistics behind it while he was running from the FBI. But by home time, Neal was more than ready for a quiet, relaxed evening and an early night.

Of course, when he let himself in to the grand house and heard a throat clear from the darkened dining room, his night could never be that simple.

Grabbing a cane from the stand in the hallway as a just-in-case, Neal warily approached the large polished table to watch a wine glass roll from one end to the other. He lunged forward just in time to catch it in one hand as it rolled off the edge.

"They say that shadows of deceased ghosts do haunt the houses and the graves about, of such whose life's lamp went untimely out, delighting still in their forsaken hosts."

Neal flicked on a light.

"The hell Moz! sitting in the dark quoting sixteenth century poetry?"

Neal threw a look at the balding man in the chair at the other end of the table, turning to retrieve a bottle of wine from the wine rack. June had more than once told him he was free to help himself, but he would be sure to replace it tomorrow out of good will.

"Is that your way of telling me to go into the 'light?'" Mozzie made sure to punctuate his disbelief of the concept with quotation marks in the air. He liked to be dramatic.

Neal shook his head and poured himself a glass, taking the seat opposite.

"Just _one_ glass? You are a terrible host."

"You can't drink Moz, I've already told you that. Being dead and all?" Neal felt like he'd spoken those words a thousand times.

Oh yeah, that's right, Neal had never actually known Mozzie when he was alive.

He'd met his spirit in Sunnydale and since then, he'd just sorta stuck around. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He wouldn't cross over simply because being himself, he liked to rebel against the natural order of things. Mozzie had marveled at someone finally being able to see him, and Neal had gained a friend. It didn't matter that he was dead.

He still found Neal's gift to be incredible though - most people assume all ghosts can see each other just like the living can but it doesn't always work that way. Some earthbound ghosts can see the rest of the earthbound dead, some can't, the same way not everyone can sing or ride a bike.

Mozzie was stuck somewhere in between frequencies like a faulty radio, because obviously he couldn't just be a normal ghost.

The little guy (though he detested that name) was the brains behind every operation - he would come up with the cons and investigate the location beforehand, whereas Neal would do the physical work. It gave his friend a sense of purpose and belonging, and for Neal, well, it was handy to have someone looking over your shoulder for you, especially when said person had no chance of being spotted. Probably a reason Neal had gotten away with so much to date.

"One can dream mon frere, one can dream. Without leaps of imagination or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities."

Neal sighed, fetching another wine glass and filling it with ribena, placing it in front of his friend.

"That's not what I-" Moz began.

"Use your imagination then. You're not going to be drinking it so it doesn't have to actually _be_ wine." Neal smirked and leaned back into his chair, watching his friend sit back with a huff. It reminded him of a similar conversation in Sunnydale, when Moz had insisted that Neal left him half of that first bottle of wine they 'shared' despite him never being able to drink it. Dead people can't drink.

It's not that Mozzie refused to believe he was dead, he just liked to pretend he wasn't. But In all the time he'd known him, Mozzie had never told Neal how or when he'd died, and Neal just never brought it up.

"Besides Moz, I've only just met June and I don't want her to think I'm an alcoholic. Plus it's her wine going to waste, no hard feelings. It's bad enough me sat here talking to myself anyway. Which reminds me, now that I'm out of prison your going to have to be more inconspicuous. What with Peter and all..."

"You haven't told the suit?"

Neal shook his head. It was bad enough the agent already wanted to meet the source of his case-related information. He didn't know how to explain that only he could see the people who gave him the rumors and hearsay that had helped to build their knowledge of the case so far. That was a first class ticket back to an institution, and that chapter of Neal's life was closed a long time ago.

"I don't think Peter's the believing type."

"Skeptic suit, got it. Want me to haunt him? I could probably change that for you?"

"No Moz, I don't think that's necessary."

* * *

**I know, I made Mozzie a ghost, shoot me. But did you see that coming? A late decision, but It just seemed to make sense, Moz being the little paranoid, mischievous ghost that haunts people and generally causes as much trouble in spirit as he did when he was alive.**


	4. Odd Encounters

**Apologies for the delay, already working on new chapter. Thank you for all the lovely reviews, they really encourage me to post new chapters and I love reading every one of them. It gives me great confidence in what I'm writing so if you're enjoying, please let me know :) Enjoy!**

* * *

There were still days where Neal awoke expecting to see whitewashed walls, locked windows, and cheery nurses coming into his room with magazines and mandatory medication. The days where he awoke feeling disjointed and scrabbling for purchase on reality, he had to remind himself that he was no longer in Sunnydale - his old life was the past and now he was free.

Or at least, free of one prison. He seemed to go about his life jumping from one form of imprisonment to another, all the same except for variation in scenery. This prison was his largest yet though, two miles was excruciatingly small, but he could make it work.

What was it that Mozzie said? From the frying pan into the fire?

Neal found his stay in supermax easier to forget than Sunnydale and prison was...well, prison.

Today was one of those aforementioned stop-freaking-out-you're-no-longer-an-oddball days, and when Neal awoke expecting to feel the dull ache of a hard, worn mattress under his back he was greeted with six hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. He'd barely known June a month, but he already felt at home in the spacious, vintage apartment, and he couldn't have asked for a better landlady.

She had been so fascinated by his gift, even more so when he'd been able to tell her the history of her nineteenth century mansion thanks to the lingering occupants attached to certain rooms and objects within June's establishment by their spiritual energy and stubbornness to go elsewhere. For instance, the grand piano in her living room used to be owned by aspiring Dutch poet Frans Lanier, who died in a house fire in the late 1800's. The fire destroyed everything of his poetry, and the man's spirit carried this burden in so much negative energy that Neal had chills every time he appeared. All the raw emotion could be felt by Neal, often dampening his mood, so the pianist was one spirit Neal preferred to avoid.

His favourite haunter however was a young girl named Emmy. She lived in the house long before June came to own the place, and couldn't have been more than six or seven when she died. She didn't remember how. Neal had never caught more than a glimpse of her - he could hear her voice sometimes, or the faint echo of mischievous laughter when he entered his apartment, but the closest he had gotten was movement out of the corner of his eye that vanished before he could turn around.

He learned rather quickly that Emmy took great delight in hiding his stuff, and only his stuff, and it became a regular morning ritual for him to have to hunt for his socks or tie pin before work.

Just as Neal was putting on his shoes, his phone rang. Knowing it was Peter, it gave him great satisfaction to let it ring a few times before he answered it. "This is your humble CI speaking, how may I help you?"

"Quit fooling around Neal, do you know I've been waiting outside for ten minutes?"

Peter wasn't a morning person, Neal had noticed. Not that Neal was any less inclined to wind him up, in fact it probably made it more fun.

"I hadn't noticed no. I would have been ready sooner but my hat's missing," Neal replied, bending over and peering under the bed as he said this. He thought he heard a giggle but it may have been his imagination.

"Funny. They don't let you wear hats in prison you know."

Ah Peter, an infinite fountain of humour with prison as the only punchline.

"Aw Peter, you love me really," Neal smiled, hoping some of that smugness would worm its way down the phone. "I'll be out in two."

* * *

Peter sighed and clicked off the phone. Hell would freeze over the day Neal Caffrey was ever on time for work. But he tolerated it to a certain extent, only because he and Caffrey were making a real duo in the department, and his contributions to the cases were substantial. Hell, they were brilliant, but he wouldn't tell Neal that - his ego was taking up too much office space already.

His contributions were bordering suspicious, some of the things he came out with - as remarkable and seemingly infinitely talented he was - the con simply couldn't have known. Either that, or he was on a personal level with every criminal they investigated in the entirety of New York. He knew Neal was a people person, but even that had to have it's limits.

The car door slammed and said con plopped into the seat beside him, this time no suave, cartoonical fedora atop his mass of curls.

"Still no hat?" Peter tried for sympathetic but it was more inwardly gratifying.

"Actually yes, Peter, but it turns invisible on Tuesdays," Neal's sarcastic and slightly bitter remark reminded Peter that his hats were a touchy subject.

"Probably a ghost," Peter offered light-heartedly, pulling away from the house. Despite his eyes being on the road, he could still see Neal visibly tense for a second, before his calm and collected default setting returned.

"Yeah, probably."

The car slowed as it approached traffic lights, and Peter took the moment to glance back over at his CI. "Hey come on, you don't really believe in any of that crap do you?"

Neal was facing the window, most likely an alternative defensive stance now that he had no fedora to hide his features, leaving him openly vulnerable. "Anything's possible," he responded carefully, deciding it was ominous enough to answer the question without really answering. "Will there be mortgage fraud today?"

Peter sensed the change of subject but let it slide. He knew how much Neal hated those cases, but he needed to realise white collar crime wasn't all about flashy criminals stealing flashier stuff. "I could make sure there is if you're asking,"

"I think one day without won't kill me."

"Good, because you're gonna love this case."

* * *

Turns out, Peter was right, the new case was proving to be pretty interesting. Their guy was Samuel Lorenzo, or, as he'd quickly been dubbed, The Magpie. Couldn't hold a candle to James Bonds, but not all FBI given nicknames could be as cool as his. Lorenzo dabbled in rare gems, or rather, he stole them. The shinier the better. They didn't have much on him yet apart from a basic profile and only rumours of his hits, so it was a shot in the dark. Interpol had been chasing the guy for a good few years, so they happily handed responsibility onto the FBI when it was rumoured he was in New York.

After the briefing, Neal wandered back to his desk to work on his contributions to the case, which were - if he didn't know the criminal already - ask around his contacts and dig up information so they could put a name to a place and hopefully gain a leg to stand on. Which meant finding Mozzie, which was always a task, because how could you find someone who could be anywhere at any time?

If ghosts had cellphones, life would be much easier. Heck, all ghost's should be issued tracking anklets like he had.

Distracted by his research, he didn't notice he was being watched. Not by Peter, or Diana or Jones, but someone only he could see. He was caught so off guard when he looked up, that he nearly knocked the mug of coffee off the edge of his desk.

It was the same ghost from the restaurant his first day out of prison. He'd quickly forgot about the incident after he didn't appear again, but seeing the disjointed shadow lingering by the glass doors of the office churned his stomach. He hadn't mentioned it to Moz either. After all, it wasn't his first odd encounter with a ghost, in fact if he told his friend about every weird dead guy he'd met the poor paranoiac would die of boredom. Pun intended.

The crazed ghost's words were still floating around his head, the cold glint in his dead eyes, the way his words screamed out agony in every syllable. Some ghosts really disturbed him, and it was them that made his gift feel like a curse.

_He killed me Caffrey! His own CI, and he'll kill you too. Ask him if you don't believe me. Ask him about what he did to Marcus. Don't let him fool you..._

Neal glanced back up at Peter, but the agent had his head down in paperwork. By the time he looked back the ghost was gone. Seeing it was nearly lunchtime, he grabbed his coat and quickly headed towards the elevator, needing some fresh air and something to eat, that would probably put his mind at ease.

Why would Peter not mention he had a CI before him? The bitter ghost put him on edge, not because he was accusing Peter of being a cold blooded killer, but because there was a whole hidden chapter of Peter's life before Neal which was now affecting him.

Pausing at the elevator, he looked towards the agent. Their eyes met for a moment, and Neal wished he could trade his ghost seeing abilities for telepathy. Neal forced a grin, before stepping into the elevator and leaving the office behind him.


	5. Scavenger Hunt

**Sorry for making you wait so long. I've been so busy recently, but I'd never leave a story unfinished. A good few chapters to go yet, with h/c, angst and drama arriving soon. I'm hoping to post another chapter either today or tomorrow. The response to this story has been overwhelming, I love reading every single one of your comments.**

* * *

Finding Mozzie...was easier said than done.

He checked the typical paranormal hotspots - which meant every single derelict building within his two mile radius, along with the few buildings that weren't considered 'free game' to all ghosts, but had been claimed and fiercely guarded by Moz as his personal safehouses. Neal had pointed out he didn't need anywhere to hide if there was nobody looking for him, but the man had responded with an ominous "So you think," and had left it at that.

He left messages with the usual suspects that made up the majority of New York's hauntings, but ghosts were never obliged to be helpful. They frequently adopted an I'm-dead-so-why-should-I-care attitude and would engage Neal in a game of twenty questions before he could be mostly certain they would pass the message on. He checked the library on the south edge of his radius, where Moz and Neal's other ghost contacts had promised to leave messages should there ever be anything Neal needed to know. This mostly involved rearranging the books on the shelves in the 'Spiritual and Paranormal' section to leave Neal coded phrases, but he found nothing from his spirit sidekick. Noting his lunch hour could only stretch so far, he finally made a stop at the graveyard on his way back towards the FBI offices.

Yes, graveyard. Mozzie had a way of being poetically morbid.

He ambled down the ragged gravel path that tore through the centre of rows of marbled stone, idly scanning the names of the deceased. He didn't particularly like graveyards - they were a playground for the dead, and often full of fledgling ghosts, who were always scared and confused and radiating negativity. That would do nothing to settle the anxiety that had been gnawing at his stomach since his second encounter with his handler's former partner.

"I saw a mockingbird in the park."

Neal startled, eyes rapidly flicking across the outstretch of manicured grass even though he knew the voice before it had finished speaking. He instantly relaxed, but his friend had yet to grace Neal with his visual presence.

"Your supposed to ask how it died."

Neal flinched again when Mozzie materialised on the bench beside him, but passed it off as reaching for his phone. Materialising was the wrong word though - Mozzie didn't just fade gradually into existence in a plume of smoke. No, he just popped up whenever the hell he felt like it.

"We need to discuss new meeting terms Moz, I can't be playing psychic scavenger hunts in my lunch hour."

"Your jumpy." The ghost observed, arms crossed across his stomach as he stared into space, as though he was reluctant to acknowledge Neal's presence.

"You know the whole, 'I can't be seen with you thing' only works when people can see you right?'"

"One must keep up appearances. What was it that so required my attention you had to miss out on a good lunch?" Moz was always abrupt when he sensed there was something wrong with his friend.

"First of all, I need you to ask around and see what you can dig up on a 'James Lorenzo'."

"The gem thief?"

"You know him?" It was a poorly phrased question, but Neal had learned that the paranoiac knew a lot more than he let on sometimes.

"Mutually. He hit a place I was casing. He's good, passed through five state of the art security cameras and disabled the heat and motion sensors. Didn't hit the displays though, went straight for the vault."

"Well, I need all you can find on him on your end, while I see what I can uncover myself."

"That's not all that's playing on your mind though."

Neal sighed, noting a text from Peter, most obviously asking of his whereabouts, despite him most likely knowing already. He made a mental note to invent a reason why he found eating lunch in a graveyard so gratifying before he got back. "Not exactly. I also need anything you can find on a 'Marcus', I don't know the last name but I think he was Peter's previous CI. We've had a couple of run-ins since I've been out of prison. He's dead, but he's holding a lot of resentment and an even larger grudge.

"I'll see what I can do."

Mozzie then vaporised as quick as he had appeared, and Neal stood, stretched his legs and headed back to where Peter was most likely boiling over.

After Neal turned the corner, Agent Jones took out his phone, from where he was stood behind a weather-worn oak tree. Peter picked up on the first ring. "Peter, It's Clinton. Yeah, I tailed him like you asked. Listen Boss...there's something you need to know."

* * *

When Neal returned to the office, it was just as he left it. Diana was typing away at her computer - she acknowledged him with a nod, The probies were gossiping around the coffee machine, and Peter was up in the conference room, speaking to Jones. Neal headed that way, strolling casually through the door and dropping into a chair. Neal only interrupted meetings if they were either nothing personal, or about him. This time, he wasn't sure which.

Jones cleared his throat, and set down a case file he was holding. "I'll get back to you on the surveillance footage," he nodded to Neal in passing before making his leave.

Neal narrowed his eyes marginally, studying Peter the brief moment his attention was elsewhere. So it was about him, then.

"Sorry I'm late, lunch ran over," Neal offered. "But I've managed to dig up some interesting dirt on our Lorenzo guy from mutual friends."

This seemed to gain Peter's interest. He was still somewhat distracted though, studying Neal like an unsolved puzzle when he thought his CI wasn't looking. "Do I want to know who?"

Neal smirked, and that was enough for the agent to wave away the question. Peter perched on the edge of the table, and Neal began rattling off some of the things Mozzie had uncovered.


	6. Skeletons

**Sorry for the short chapter last time, this one is much longer. Can't wait to see what you think of this one, it was really fun to write.**

* * *

"A psych assessment?"

Neal's eyes widened at Peter, unable to hide his surprise at the request. As far as he could remember, he hadn't done anything to alert his colleague's suspicions, which meant Peter must have had him tailed. He felt let down. He hoped the older agent didn't also see the fear that flashed momentarily across his face as the word clawed up reminiscences of his unpleasant childhood. "I don't - why?"

Peter sighed, hands clasped together in front of his face from where he sat opposite his CI in the conference room. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of the whole situation. If it came down to it, he would trust Neal Caffrey with his life. The man had made many wrong decisions, but he knew that when it came to life and death, he would do the right thing. There was no doubt about it.

He wanted to believe that Neal was fine, really he did. But 'fine' people do not sit in graveyards for hours and talk to themselves. Though he had yet to see it himself, both Jones and Diana had reported it on several occasions when Neal was alone. It was becoming a cause for concern.

The day Jones came back with his findings, Peter had taken Neal's file home with him and had combed through every piece of evidence they had on him. But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't find the root of the problem - as far as they knew, Neal hadn't been bereaved of anybody he was close to, and there was nothing in his file to indicate towards mental illness. But after all, Neal was only Neal after his eighteenth birthday, and before then was a whole new concept entirely. If something had happened that they didn't know about, it would have been before then.

The only trouble was, there was no delicate way of getting Neal to open up about his past. The issue was sensitive enough already.

Peter was trying to approach the subject without cornering Neal - because the last thing he wanted was for him to feel threatened, because his work release deal was going well outside of this newly arisen issue. He thought back to Neal's first day out of prison, with the situation in the restaurant. He'd put it down to anxiety at the time, because he didn't want to believe there was anything wrong with Neal Caffrey. People like him weren't designed with imperfections.

"This doesn't reflect on you," Peter began. Great, because that was a good start. "But in future circumstances, if you are going to go out in the field, I need to know you'll be able to handle it, just like I need to know with all of my agents. Psych evals are standard for working agents, to ensure they can handle the stress and toll that comes with the job. It's also the reason why they are required to have them after particularly bad cases, or in the rare cases of injury in the field. It doesn't say anything about you."

Peter hated lying to Neal. It wasn't as though what he was saying wasn't true, but it seemed wrong to hide to real reason behind small truths. But he didn't want to lose Neal's trust by showing doubt in him, or having him doubt himself. So by Neal believing the evaluation was for different reasons would ultimately be for his own good.

Neal had yet to speak, so Peter continued to fill the silence that hung blearily over the room. "I have every faith in you Neal, but it's also my job to keep you safe. I know your talents are going to waste pouring over case files every day, and you could do great things out in the field just like you have been doing here. But If anything happened to you on my watch, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Do you understand that?"

Peter's voice had unwillingly softened into that careful tone he used on frightened victims or when trying to get a first time criminal to 'put the gun down'. He prayed it would show his care rather than his concern.

But Peter had seen Neal zone out at times, when his eyes would flick over to the corner in the middle of meetings, or something would startle him that wasn't really there. If something was affecting Neal, it was Peter's job to save him from it.

He wanted Neal to say something - argue back, hurl accusations, but instead he just sat there and stared, emotions too well disguised to allow Peter to see how he was taking it.

Before he could assure Neal it would be okay, the younger man stood up, pushed his chair back, and walked out of the room.

He wasn't buying it.

* * *

Neal made a quick retreat to the men's room. If he had eaten lunch, it would have most likely been at the bottom of the toilet bowl. He clenched his fists to cease the shaking that had taken him so suddenly, holding one up to his face to try and calm his spiked anxiety.

He couldn't see a shrink. He wouldn't. He'd spent his whole childhood sat opposite one, and if the lines between his past and present became too blurred he'd start caving in on himself again. He'd spent his entire life building himself up, becoming a new person, burying his weaknesses so deep they would never see sunlight. He didn't want to be reminded of the past. He couldn't.

He also didn't want to disappoint Peter. He'd done that enough to people already. But he was stupid to think he could live a new life without people digging into his past. Taking the skeletons out of his closet.

If he refused the assessment, it would raise suspicions, but if he went and screwed it up well, that was worse. He also didn't exactly wish to add to his collection of childhood scarring. However, if he wasn't passed for fieldwork, they'd eventually decide he wasn't worth his cost, and would ship him back to prison.

He wasn't really worried about failing the test - he was perfectly sane so there would be nothing to doubt. He was however worried about having a full blown panic attack in a room with a shrink.

He knew one thing for certain though. The quicker he got through this, the quicker they could crack the Lorenzo case and Neal could deal with his dead stalker.

He could do this.

* * *

The psychiatrist was a petite, optimistic but professionally serious blonde.

She was older than Neal, closer to fifty than forty, and wore her hair in a short bob that curled under at the ends. She wore a tight fitted smile, but was surprisingly friendly and kept strict formalities to a minimum.

She'd lead Neal into the small, cosy office, and told him he could sit where he wanted. He took the opportunity to claim the chair that was most likely for her, letting her sit on the sofa instead. Anything to gain control over the situation and break away from what was engraved in his memory after all those years of unpleasant conversations with professionals.

She didn't seem to mind though - she sat opposite him with a notepad in her lap while he sat arms folded. Defensive.

He had to give credit, the room was nothing like the room he sat in every other day with the Sunnydale psychiatrist, to discuss his 'progress' and 'rehabilitation'. It was tidy, but filled with personal additions that took away the feel of scrutiny, giving the room an overall homely facade. He presumed that was the idea.

He watched her watching him, letting her have the first move while he calculated.

"Neal, my name is Dr. Halldren, but you can call me Ann. First of all, is there anything you want to ask before we begin?"

First name basis, Neal observed. To get him to trust her, break initial barriers. He wanted to point out that her name rhymed with cauldron, but instead politely shook his head.

She straightened up, apparently getting down to business now pleasantries had been exchanged, at least from one end. "Now Neal, do you understand why you're here? To assess your psychological state and determine you fit for fieldwork. How do you feel about that transition?"

Neal's eyes were elsewhere, flickering cautiously around the room. Her words were distorted by the voice of his previous psychiatrist, and suddenly the room wasn't the same as it was when he walked in, and the air was becoming thick. He really couldn't do this, he couldn't spend any more of his life living up to standards and avoiding judgement. He wasn't the frightened little kid from the mental hospital anymore, he was Neal Caffrey - conman extroadinaire and in no way, shape or form mentally unwell.

"I think you should have a drink of water Neal. Neal can you hear me?"

He felt a cool glass being pushed into his hands, and he gripped it tight, breathing heavily through his nose. When had breathing become so unnatural? His unsteady hands guided the glass up to his lips and he took a sip, then another, and that settled him enough that he could see the concerned but patient face of the women watching him, waiting.

"Feel better?"

He nodded, setting the glass down on the low coffee table that separated them. He loosened the top button of his shirt. "Sorry, I skipped lunch today and I guess I'm just a little nervous."

Dr. Halldren nodded, and though she didn't question his decision not to eat, he knew she'd filed it away. "Shall we start again?" She smiled, this time a gentle, comforting smile untainted by professional distance. "Remember Neal, everything you say in here will stay between us, The only thing I'll be reporting on is my opinion of whether you will be fit for fieldwork with Agent Burke."

"And you don't look like the kind of women that would take a bribe." This seemed to amuse her greatly , but she replied with a definite "no."

"Now Neal," she leaned forward, steadying the notepad on her lap. "Do you want to tell me a little about your deal with Agent Burke?"

That, he could do. That was easy. But he knew it always started with factual questions, to slowly ease you into the personal ones. He answered anyway, "I'm working off a four year sentence on a work release deal for the FBI. The terms of my agreement instate an electronic monitoring anklet with a two mile radius. I assist the FBI in solving cases with my various areas of expertise." He spoke the facts, almost clinically, but apparently it was enough.

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Well, I enjoy working with Peter. It beats prison."

"You don't want to go back to prison?"

"Of course not."

"What about your own opinion. Do you believe you're capable of assisting Peter out in the field?"

"Yes, definitely. I have the ability to assume new identities with ease, and can work calmly in pressurised environments. I believe I would be of great assistance undercover."

"Do you suppose there is anything that may hold you back from that? Any habits, tendencies, substance abuse, recent bereavement? Anything that may cloud your vision or judgement?"

"Bereavement?" Neal stopped suddenly, suspiciously examining the Doctor. He didn't like where this was going.

"As an example. How would you assess your ability to cope with grief?"

"I don't see how that's relevant." Neal folded his arms again, watching the psychiatrist scribble down notes. She had her pad tilted so that he couldn't read it, but not at enough of an angle that she was purposefully hiding them from him.

"If not grief, than stress. How do you usually deal with a stressful situation?"

"What are you implying?"

She sighed. "I'm just trying to establish a basis of your behaviour, to see if there is anything that could be addressed. Your file leaves a lot to the imagination, so as for what's happened in your life that may have lasting effects on your psychology, there isn't that much to go on. But I need you to work with me if we're ever going to come to a conclusion."

She paused, pouring herself a glass of water to equal his, which she set down on the table. She set her pad down, looking towards him, her expression torn. Neal held her stare confidently, refusing to break. This session mirrored his very first - It had taken at least a year of 'treatment' before he'd given his therapist anything useful to go on. He wasn't going to spill his life's story after one appointment. Dr Halldren pressed further, "What are you afraid of Neal?"

_The fact that I'm different. The fact that I can see things nobody else can see and there's nobody I can go to, and not a damn thing I can do about it. The fact that my handler's dead CI won't leave me alone and wants me to believe Peter is a murderer. What else would I be afraid of ?_

Neal stared down at his hands, noticing how warm they were despite the temperature of the room being mild.

"Neal?" Dr Halldren prompted. She patiently twirled the pen in her hand.

"Well, I guess I'm afraid of-"

"Government cover-ups threatening to destroy the building blocks of humanity?" Mozzie supplied helpfully from where he was now sat next to the psychiatrist. Being dead, he had all the time in the world yet still chose to turn up at the most inappropriate times. His unwavering stare screamed _Don't tell them anything_. "I can't believe they sent you to a shrink."

"I fear what will happen if the FBI no longer finds me useful."

Mozzie sighed, a heavy, disappointed sigh. "Did you try offering her a Bribe?"

Dr Halldren mused over Neal's answer, tapping the pen to her lip. She was oblivious to the delusions of the third individual in the room. "You have a wide array of unique talents Neal-"

"Some of which not even the suits have identified." Mozzie commented, looking between the two like the conversation actually included him.

"-and already I see you've made notable contributions to the cases you've been assigned to. Do you not think the FBI sees that?"

"Of course they won't, they're backstabbing-"

Neal cleared his throat, halting Mozzie mid sentence. He shot him a glare that didn't go unnoticed by the women. "I do believe I'm making a difference, but I think I would be able to achieve even more out in the field."

"And possibly get shot at. Or blown up. Or become vegetabled by a knock to the head. Or quite possibly a combination of-"

"That is," Neal interrupted, "If I have your approval," he gave the doctor his best winning smile. Mozzie grumbled something from beside her, but Neal was too fixated with her final opinion to hear it. He prayed she would decide quickly - Mozzie had turned his attention to her tumbler of water, as if he was trying to summon the willpower to tip the glass (he became restless easily and found great enjoyment in his abilities.)

"I'll need to have a quick word with Agent Burke, but in my professional opinion I don't believe there is anything that would hinder your performance out in the field. But from what I've gathered, you appear to have issues with trusting people, and reluctance to open up about your personal life. Unless that's just me."

"Just you," Mozzie answered with a nod of confirmation.

Neal wasn't sure whether to sigh with relief of hug Dr Halldren, so instead he just nodded and stood, shaking her hand and uttering his thanks. He stood and made his way to the door, giving her a last thankful smile.

Mozzie took the long route out, which meant walking through the Coffee table, and the chair, and finally through the wall, muttering something about psychiatrists and mind control in passing.


	7. Takedown

"All teams move in but do not enter the building. Team one take the north entrance, team two, east. I want every inch of this place surrounded but do not, I repeat do not enter the building until I get there, do you understand?"

Peter was adept at multitasking, Neal noticed, as he watched his handler yell orders into the radio - whilst still keeping his other hand on the wheel, and eyes on the road. Sure, it made Peter's already choppy driving a little more unbearable, but so far there had been no sudden breaks, and they were still within the speed limit, if only by decimals.

They were only a few blocks away from where the stakeout van was positioned, and where the teams were moving into place. With Neal's help, or more accurately because of Neal, they were able to get a location on the whereabouts of Lorenzo, and Peter had ordered a stakeout to confirm Neal's intel. According to the agents in SWAT they had a visual on their gem thief at the address Neal had provided, so now they were heading that way to arrest him, hopefully with little, preferably no resistance..

Neal was a little worried that Peter would want to know where this information was coming from. He had every right to be suspicious after all - they had only been after the Magpie for less than a week, and despite only having heresay and rumours on the guy, Neal had been able to draw a plausible address seemingly out of thin air. It was only a matter of time before they started accusing him of being involved in the crimes, and Peter hadn't exactly said much to him today.

Of course, Neal would gladly offer a few names of his see all, know all informants - if it didn't make him look insane.

"Alright, we're here."

Neal glanced out of the window. The derelict building stood out stark against the relatively upmarket area it resided in. Though it wasn't the target of bricking or graffiti from today's youth, it was still clearly uninhabited, from the outside at least. Neal thought it was suspicious that a criminal, who had remained off radar for so long and was clearly skilled in his trade, would pick such an obvious location to hide away in.

It all seemed intentional, like Lorenzo had something else planned. He turned to voice this to Peter but he turned too late, receive the back end of the car door. With a sigh, he got out from his own side, where Peter was speaking to Jones, who was flaunting a bulletproof vest and armour that looked like Star Wars merchandise. Peter was stepping into his own protective gear.

"I thought Lorenzo wasn't dangerous?" Neal caught up to his handler, who was donning a serious look that hadn't changed all morning. He presumed Peter was always this edgy when a case came to a close. Either that, or he had a gut feeling that he wasn't sharing with anyone.

"We don't have anything to suggest so, but you can never be too careful," Peter accepted an earpiece from Jones, fitting it in his ear.

"Where's my costume?" Neal asked, nodding towards the gear. "A dead CI is a useless CI."

"Yes, and that's why you're stepping out on this one. Wait for me in the car."

Neal blinked. "Excuse me?"

Peter sighed, as though he'd been expecting this argument. He turned to Jones - "Give me five," he instructed the younger agent. "Wait for me by the entrance. Do we still have eyes on our guy?"

"Target last seen on the second floor," Jones replied, signalling his team by the front of the building, lined up along the wall, to get into position. He headed over to join them, most likely going over the plan a final time.

"What do you mean I'm stepping out on this one?" Neal spoke up as soon as Jones was out of earshot. "This is because of the therapist thing isn't it? You don't trust me!"

Peter herded Neal over by the Taurus, away from the others. "Of course not, Neal, but I just think we should start with a smaller operation first. I don't want you getting hurt, and this is a simple arrest, there isn't anything you can do on this one."

"Well if it's so simple, why do you want me out of the way?" Neal's voice was hardening, and a look of hurt flashed across his face. Peter tried not to think about it.

"Next operation, I promise. I know you'll knock the undercover work out of the park, but leave the arrests to me."

"Fine." Neal turned away before Peter could say anything else, throwing himself back into the car. He used enough force on the door to express his thoughts on Peter's betrayal. What was the point in working with the FBI if they were going to keep him wrapped in cotton the entire time? He'd practically solved the case single-handedly, and now he was missing out on the most exiting part of it.

Peter looked as though he wanted to say something, but he turned back and made his way towards the building. Neal watched him address the unit, before the first team moved in. Neal sighed, longing to be part of the action and feeling more than a bit betrayed. Since Peter wasn't here, he put his feet up on the dashboard. Peter would soon experience the full front of the Caffrey sulk, and he wouldn't be happy about it.

"Are you the guy who talks to the dead?"

Neal spun around to look over his shoulder into the back of the car. There sat a man, early twenties, with the same square jawline and brown eyes as Lorenzo. Neal recognised that immediately. Lorenzo's file never said anything about relatives, nor dead ones at that. "What do you want?"

"My brother's going to make a huge mistake. You need to get your guys out."

"I'm sorry but you'll have to be more specific." So The Magpie, had a brother. Or a dead one, but Neal couldn't decide whether this was a good thing. "Does he know we're here?"

"Yes, it's a trap. There's a bomb."

Neal froze, looking back towards the building. Crap. "Are you certain? He's your brother, if this is some kind of-"

"I'm positive, and if you don't act soon your buddies will be blown to bits-"

"Nice imagery."

"Look, I was killed six months ago in one of my brother's backstreet operations when someone tipped the feds off. He blames them for my death, and he's going to get revenge on the system. There is a bomb. I saw it. He's not thinking straight. You have about-" the man broke off to glance down at a gold plated watch on his wrist. Neal wasn't entirely sure that it worked. "Eight minutes."

Neal wasn't listening any more; he was already out of the car. "Do you know Mozzie?" He turned to the ghost, who had faded momentarily to reappear beside him.

The ghost smirked. "Everyone knows Mozzie."

"Good. Find him." Neal pivoted abruptly and began running towards the entrance of the building. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of Lorenzo as he ran out through a side door, that hadn't been mentioned in the operation specifics. Neal had more important priorities than to chase him. He bolted up the first set of stairs, but Peter must have already cleared that floor. The building had five floors, and there wasn't much time.

He bumped into, or rather bumped through Mozzie as he cleared the top of the stairs. He didn't hesitate to bring the paranoiac up to speed. "Moz, I need a distraction," Neal breathed, a hand to his side to ward off the oncoming stitch. He considered himself fit, but the cocktail of adrenaline and determination was playing hell with his body, and there was a lot of ground to cross between floors. "You need to get Peter to stop moving forwards because there's a bomb and it's going to blow up if we don't get him out of here."

"What am I supposed to do?" Mozzie argued. "I haven't exactly mastered the whole penny up the wall thing yet."

"I don't know. Just do something!" Neal didn't have time to argue; the clock was ticking and Peter's life, along with all those other agents were in danger. He raced past just as the ghost dissapeared, heading for the second floor.

Hearing a crash from above, he silently thanked Mozzie for the intervention, praying it was just that and not borderline mass destruction. With him you could never be too sure.

Reaching the third floor, he ran right into the muzzle of a sniper from SWAT. He suddenly found himself faced with over ten guns all pointing in his direction, apparently waiting for someone to give them the all clear to not shoot the FBI's consultant. Wide eyed, he held up his hands, looking past them for Peter, who was storming over, breaking through the circle of agents to seize his shoulder and pull him to one side. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing? I made my orders very clear. You could have been killed, Neal!"

"Peter, there's a bomb. Lorenzo set a bomb and it's going to go off with us inside if we don't get out now." Neal didn't waste time by letting Peter vent out his fury on him.

The agent tensed, but he didn't look convinced. Perhaps exasperated was a better word.

Neal wasn't surprised - he had just foiled days of extensive planning and resources even if it was to save the lives of everyone involved.

"A bomb? Neal, how could you possibly know that, you were in the car."

Neal opened his mouth to respond but Peter silenced him with a finger, speaking into his earpiece. "Do you know anything about a bomb?"

The answer must have been negative, because Peter looked more pissed off than he had all morning. He motioned for the rest of the agents to continue up the stairs.

"Peter, please!"

"How could you possibly know there's a bomb?"

Neal went silent, eyes pleading but unable to bring himself to confess. Peter couldn't know...nobody could know. "I-I can't-"

Peter cut him off. "Neal, go back to the car," he ordered, before releasing his consultant, and moving towards the stairs to follow the rest of his team.

Neal ran after him, standing defiantly in the agent's path. "Peter, _listen_ to me! There is a bomb somewhere in this building. That is a fact. If you do not get everyone out of here, we are all going to die. Lorenzo has already left the building already. He's set a trap, Peter. Please believe me!"

Peter scanned the con's face, noting that whether he was right or not, Neal certainly believed what he was saying. Nobody could fake that kind of sheer panic. He looked genuinely terrified, and he knew the man only let other's see his emotions when they needed to, so this must be one of those times. He glanced between the stairs and his pleading consultant. "How could you possibly know this, Neal? I can't just abort this entire operation, everything we've worked for, if I do not have a valid reason. Why can't you tell-"

"I'm psychic." Not a complete lie, but it was vague enough to hide the truth.

Peter froze, narrowing his eyes. _That_ was something that had failed to make an appearance in Caffrey's file.

"Psychic?" His voice dripped with scepticism, towards both Neal's honesty, and the whole of the psychic crap in general. But somehow, he couldn't _not_ believe him.

"Peter, we're running out of time!"

There was a long silence, only dispelled by the sound of footsteps from the floor above. Then the agent put a finger to his earpiece and yelled into it, "Halt operation. Get everyone out of the building now!" He turned to Neal. "Let's go,"

Once certain his men were following, he ushered his consultant towards the stairs, as they raced back towards the entrance of the building. They made it out with just seconds to spare. The force of the explosion tore out of the building with an anguished roar. It threw them violently to the ground, along with the agents from SWAT who had thankfully made it out in time. The sky rained debris down on them as the heat from the building surged at their backs.

Peter was up first, along with the other agents who were slowly picking themselves up off the ground, guns and riot shields scattered across blackened concrete. The world seemed oddly muffled from the ringing in his ears, but he could make out Diana racing over from where she had been monitoring in the van, checking over everyone for injuries with a phone to her ear.

Peter rolled Neal over, who groaned something that sounded like 'Now do you believe me?' He took that as a good sign. The kid was sporting a small cut to the head, but it didn't look serious. "Neal." Peter gently tapped his consultant's cheek, rousing him. "Neal look at me."

Neal's eyes blinked sluggishly in surprise, before he seemed to snap back from wherever it is he went, frowning and pushing his handler to one side so he could sit up. That, quite frankly, turned out to be a terrible decision, and left his stomach doing somersaults in protest. He groaned, holding back the urge to be sick. He didn't wish to stain Peter's only decent suit.

"That's it, I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No!" Neal responded a little too suddenly. "I mean, I'm fine. There's no need to."

"You need to get checked out, Neal. You're bleeding."

Neal dabbed his shirt sleeve to his head, and sure enough, Peter was right. "Look. It's nothing serious. It doesn't even need stitches. A couple of painkillers and I'll be fine."

Hospitals were never a good idea, and the last time he'd been in one - a real one - he'd totally lost his shit. That was over 15 years ago, and he'd vowed he would never return. The mere thought of it sent him into panic.

Peter wasn't having it though. "Neal, why are you being hard on yourself? You could have a concussion. Do you expect me to just let you go wandering around New York and bleeding on everyone?."

"Peter, I'm not going to the hospital." Neal was surprised he still had the energy and mind power to argue, despite how his head was spinning the opposite way to his stomach.

The agent sighed and stood up, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. He also knew a concussion when he saw one. "Alright, but you're coming home with me."

"What?"

"Neal, if you won't go to the hospital, you need someone to watch over you to make sure your head doesn't explode in the next twenty four hours. Consider it bureau provided health insurance, since it's a safe bet that you don't have any. Now stay sat down for a bit-"

"On the floor?"

"Yes, on the floor, Neal, because right now I'm not quite sure standing up would agree with you. I'll go find you some water, okay?"

"Okay."

It didn't take long to find a bottle of water from somewhere, which Neal gratefully accepted.

"Not all at once okay?"

"Yes, Peter. I'm not going to keel over and die, you know."

"You'd better not, it would make me look bad."

Neal grinned, looking better than he had before. He waved Peter away - "Go check on your team."

Peter patted Neal's shoulder and then searched the crowd for Diana. Spotting her, he headed her way. "Is anyone hurt?"

"Just bruises and headaches, thankfully. We were lucky, it could have been much worse." That Diana's eyes drifted over to Caffrey gave Peter an idea of what she was thinking. Everyone had heard the consultant rattle off about a bomb, which just happened to save the lives of half the division. They would have questions - Hell, he had questions, which he was going to ensure Neal answered as soon as his concussion was taken care of.

"Go on, ask me," Peter said, letting her take that as a cue to ask the question everyone wanted to know.

"How in hell did Caffrey manage to know about a bomb before we did? We had absolutely nothing that could indicate Lorenzo even knew we were coming."

Peter mulled over his next options. Neal didn't seem too happy about telling Peter, for reasons that were beyond him. However, nobody was just going to sweep this under the rug, not until he came up with a valid reason for Neal's intel. Whether he liked it or not, his team needed to know how they'd narrowly missed being blown sky high. "He's psychic." Peter didn't sound very convincing, because he was still trying to convince himself.

"I'm being serious, Peter." Diana gave Peter a look, before taking a harder look at his expression. "And...so are you. Wait, you actually believe him?"

"He said he'd never lie," Peter replied, as though that explained everything. It did, in a way.

"Are you sure he wasn't involved? It seems awfully suspicious that he just happened to know the exact location of our gem thief, and then he plucked the idea of a bomb out of his head. What if he and Lorenzo are in it together? How can we be sure he's not just using us to help his criminal buddies?"

Diana had a point, but she hadn't chased Neal for three years. "I know Neal. That's not him."

"Well, if that's what you think, then you have my support. He looks like hell," she nodded to where Neal was sitting, looking particularly sorry for himself. "I'll deal with Hughes, go get him fixed up."

"Are you sure?" He didn't like the idea of letting her deal with their boss alone, especially once he was told about how well the takedown had gone.

"Peter, you were in the building too. Remember I was out in the van. You need a good night's sleep just as much as Neal does. Go."

Peter was lucky to have such a loyal team. He thanked her, and then walked back over to where Neal was sat, this time next to a funny little balding man. Fortunately for him, he could only see Neal. Meaning he couldn't hear the man say 'Right, that's my cue to go,' as Peter approached, nor could he see him take off with such haste that could only come from a strong dislike of the government.

Can you stand?" Peter held a hand out to his consultant.

Neal took the offered hand, using it to hoist himself up off the ground, grimacing as he tried to rewire his brain to his feet. He smoothed down his suit, briefly checking for any tears or burn marks, but unlike him, it seemed to be in good health.

Peter scoffed. "Neal, your suit's fine, and even if it wasn't, you're only coming home with me. The only other person you can flaunt your stylish attire on is El, and well, if you're trying that hard to impress my wife I should be worried."

"You think I'm stylish?" Neal's I'm-totally-making-fun-of-you smirk was a little down on it's usual influence, but it still had some of it's effect.

"Let's go."

* * *

**Some long awaited Hurt/Comfort. Your thoughts are always appreciated. Now that Peter knows about Neal, there's room for things to start getting exciting! Remember this fic is also cross-posted at Ao3.  
**

**This chapter was Beta'd by the amazing VividEscapist.  
**


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